


Regression

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Ficlet, Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 22:26:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10545366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Glorfindel returns to find Erestor playing babysitter to a certain little lord and servant.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for dantemew’s “Kidfic Elrond/Lindir (where they've been turned into kids and end up attached to each other)” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/159203405160/for-the-bingo-i-had-a-couple-of-suggestions). (For [my bingo](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/158937866370/fic-bingo).)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings or The Silmarillion or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The messenger told him it was urgent, and he walks twice as fast for it, not even bothering to take Asfaloth to the stables himself. Erestor would only call him back so swiftly if there were dire need, and by the time Glorfindel reaches Elrond’s office, he half expects to find it full of orcs.

He doesn’t knock, just slips inside, and Erestor, standing close, turns to look at him.

Elrond’s nowhere to be found. His desk is empty, the table behind it neatly stacked with parchment, and on the floor of the wide space, two children are playing.

Glorfindel comes to Erestor’s side, already curious, and Erestor breathes, “Thank goodness you have returned. You must ride out again and bring Mithrandir here at once.” Erestor’s words are grave and too quiet to carry, though he doesn’t look at Glorfindel while he speaks; his gaze is fixed on the children.

Glorfindel understands why. The older of the two has already caught his eye. He’s never seen either one before, though he knows most of Imladris’ residents. He hasn’t heard of anyone being pregnant for decades. Both are just barely old enough to be trusted with the ink they wield, circled in little pots around them. The youngest is drawing a half-formed harp of purple and blue, while the older sits beside him and murmurs kind encouragement. Glorfindel eyes their dark hair, long and brushed straight, and the pale skin beneath. The younger one is soft and delicate, but the older one...

“Has one of the twins found an heir?” Glorfindel asks. The prospect seems ridiculous—surely Elladan and Elrohir would know far sooner if they’d sired a child. But the one before him is strikingly similar to the way they used to look when they were little tykes driving him mad. Albeit, this one looks far better behaved. 

Erestor sighs. It sounds worryingly ominous to Glorfindel given the contents of the room. Without directly answering, Erestor calls, “Elrond.” 

The child looks up, and Glorfindel’s heart freezes in his chest. It isn’t the twins he’s reminded of. But it can’t be. It’s just a _boy_ , his face devoid of any age, still fresh as any pure-born elf. Erestor beckons a hand, and the boy rises obediently, patting down his crimson robes, then wandering over.

He comes to stand right before them, not even up to their chests, and he has to crane back to look up, but he doesn’t seem troubled for it. There’s no recognition in his eyes. Erestor gently tells him, “This is Glorfindel, Elrond. He is a good friend of mine.”

Elrond says politely, “Hello,” and bows his head as one would to an elder or a lord. The voice is higher than Glorfindel’s used to, but the cadence is still familiar. Glorfindel finds himself staring, then forces his gaze away. The smaller child is now fidgeting nervously over his parchment, the quill lying flat in a tiny puddle. 

Erestor calls, “Lindir, come here please,” and the child scrambles up and hurries over.

He reaches Elrond’s back and shyly ducks behind it. Glorfindel never knew Lindir as a child, but he can see the resemblance now; Lindir’s always been soft and smooth. The only difference is he’s much smaller, and his eyes are wider, and he actually clings to Elrond’s robes, which he might’ve only dreamed of in adulthood. Between that and his own introduction, Glorfindel imagines their memories have been lost with their true forms.

Erestor asks kindly, “Are you tired, Lindir?” Normally relegated to overseeing the highest levels of Imladris, it’s strange to hear Erestor pitched for children. But it seems to work well; Lindir responds to him with a quick headshake and a little, hopeful smile. Erestor suggests, “Are you hungry? Glorfindel and I have many dull words ahead of us—perhaps you should take your lunch break now. You remember where the kitchens are, yes?”

Lindir’s eyes grow impossibly bigger, and he all but squeaks, “By myself?” It’s almost comical, given his propensity to micromanage that very kitchen on other occasions. He turns to Elrond imploringly, not as the usual servant to a lord, but merely a younger student to an older one.

Elrond tells him, “I will go with you,” and all the worry melts right off Lindir’s face. It’s at least encouraging that their personalities seem in tact—at least, Lindir is as drawn to his lord as he’s always been.

Erestor decides, “Very well. But you will have to clean the room first.”

Both boys nod and rush back to their workstation. They gather the inkpots with their normal care, and Elrond blows on Lindir’s parchment before showing him how to roll it up. There are a few other things to put away—pillows on the floor, open books, and a stuffed swan toy that Glorfindel remembers from Arwen’s chambers. While the children are preoccupied, Glorfindel quietly asks, “How did this happen?”

“I do not know,” Erestor answers. He speaks calmly, but his expression’s laced with concern. Glorfindel can tell that he hasn’t taken his eye off his lord since. “It must be some dark magic, and we must right it as soon as possible. We cannot have our lord out of commission long.”

Glorfindel doesn’t even want to think of the repercussions of that. He knows well enough how much Imladris needs Elrond. But as he watches Lindir try to place one of the books on a high shelf, only to turn, teary-eyed, to Elrond, he can’t help a pang of sympathy for Lindir as well. Elrond comes swiftly to his rescue, and Lindir gives an awe-filled thank you, as though Elrond’s done something magical. Elrond gives Lindir’s hair a light ruffle that makes him giggle. It’s strange to see Elrond doting on Lindir for once, instead of the other way around. 

It’s _all_ strange. Glorfindel mutters, “At least they are not alone.”

“Yes,” Erestor agrees. “They have grown quite close already, perhaps by virtue of my protection and having no other peers, or perhaps because of the imprint of their former selves. They have not changed much in that. ...The largest change, unfortunately, is only that Elrond does not know how truly significant he is.”

With the last of the pillows put away, the boys wander back over, looking expectantly up at Erestor. He tells them, “Say goodbye to Glorfindel before you go; he will be riding out again.”

Lindir mumbles a short and garbled, “Goodbye, Glorfandil,” then turns a light pink and bolts out through the door. Glorfindel doesn’t even get a chance to return the sentiment.

Elrond waits, peering around Erestor’s legs, but Lindir clearly isn’t coming back—he’s probably waiting out in the hall. Elrond straightens then and steps up to Glorfindel. For a moment, his carriage increases, his air important and his expression serious. He asks Glorfindel, “Are you going to bring Elros home?”

Glorfindel doesn’t know what to say. He looks to Erestor, who he can see wrestling with a deep sadness that Glorfindel doesn’t want to touch. Erestor speaks first, announcing, “I am sorry, Elrond, but I think he must ride sooner than I thought. There is no time for more.” With a forced smile, he reaches for Elrond’s little hand, wrapping it tight in his own. “I will take you to the kitchens after all.”

Elrond nods to both of them, and then Erestor’s turning him, guiding him towards the doors. Over his shoulder, Erestor gives Glorfindel a hopeless look and mouths: _Hurry_.

Glorfindel follows swiftly, already whistling for Asfaloth to prepare.


End file.
